Page 23 of The Dearly Departed

"The pain of losing a child … a son … is one I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy," Leonard replied. "Something about it feels so … unnatural and wrong."

Something in that statement flicked at my brain, and I fought the urge to react.

Leonard has a son? Had?

Then, before I could linger on the thought, something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. Movement. I turned and saw a girl about Isaac's age. Thirteen, fourteen maybe. Long black hair and pale skin peeked out from between towering shrubs along the McDonalds’ fence.

My heart jolted, jerked, and tugged, and on instinct, without a moment to think, I approached slowly, tentatively, and uttered a name I hadn't spoken aloud in five years.

"Anna?"

Those eyes widened for half a second, and I thought, somehow, I had found her. Somehow, our paths had crossed again, and she was here.

My heart thrummed excitedly as I moved quicker toward the screen of shrubbery, hoping to get a closer look at her, to really see her. Whole and good and okay.

"Anna!"

But those few seconds were fleeting, and then her gaze narrowed with suspicion and … fear? She turned quickly and ran, hurrying into the house next door and slamming the door shut behind her.

This girl had gray eyes.

Anna’s eyes were dark brown, nearly black.

A soul-piercing loss shattered the cold brick walls I'd built around my heart, and I wilted on the spot.

It wasn't her.

How many times had I thought I saw her face? On the streets, in schools, in framed pictures of fake families being sold in stores. And every single moment ended the same—with my heart left cracked open, bleeding out all over again.

"Bram?" Leonard called out with concern and curiosity.

I swallowed my pride, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Then I turned and hurried to the passenger side of the hearse, ignoring the look on his face.

"Let's go," I grunted before climbing in and slamming the door shut.

***

"Do you want to talk?" Leonard asked after we'd been driving for a few minutes.

I had wondered when he was going to bring it up. I had hoped he wouldn't, but I also knew the old guy couldn't help himself. I might not care enough about most things, but Leonard's problem was that he cared too much.

"Nothing to talk about."

"Well, you seemed pretty upset back there, so I was thinking—"

"Nope."

He pulled in a deep breath and pursed his lips. I knew he wasn’t going to leave it alone. I knew he'd say something else. But what he was going to say, ask, do … I couldn't be sure, and that uncertainty left me queasy and sweating.

"Do you want to tell me who Anna is?"

"Do you want to tell me about your son?" I fired back angrily, not wanting to talk about her with him or anyone.

Leonard exhaled and nodded. "Sure, I'll tell you about my son. His name was Jacob. He was twenty-three when he passed. Motorcycle accident."

His responses were clipped, but his voice held the same softness he always spoke to us with. Like he wanted to get it over with, but didn't want to be mistaken for being rude. As if Leonard could ever be considered such a thing as rude.

"When?"